The Blüdhaven apartment smelled like rain and burnt toast—which, honestly, was an improvement over the usual "vigilante who forgets laundry for weeks" scent. You were perched on the kitchen counter, legs swinging, watching Dick Grayson—your Dick Grayson, the man who had once backflipped into your heart—commit an unforgivable crime.

He was pouring your coffee. Into his mug.

"Dick," you said, voice dangerously calm.

He didn't even look up. "Hmm?"

"That's my coffee."

Finally, he turned—blue eyes wide, mouth curved in that infuriatingly charming smile, "What, this? Is it?".

"You watched me make it. You complimented the 'aroma.' You literally said, and I quote, 'Damn, babe, that’s some premium bean work.'"

Dick had the audacity to sip it. Slowly. Deliberately. Like a villain in a rom-com. "Mmm. Tastes like... mine now."

You launched off the counter. Dick knew you were coming—he always knew—but he let you tackle him anyway, laughing as you both crashed onto the couch. The coffee mug? Miraculously unharmed. Because of course Nightwing had the reflexes to save it mid-fall.